


Cotton

by Willam



Series: (Our love is found) Between the Waking and the Dreaming [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Codependency, Control Issues, Eames POV, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Submission, Partners to Lovers, Pining, Rules, both if you squint, mentions of alcohol use, postcard fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7185974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willam/pseuds/Willam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My mother warned me to stay away from men like you.  She wasn’t speaking of my lovers at that point mind you, as it would be many years until I told her of my predilections.  What she meant was stay away from people—men—like my father.  Cool, calculating intelligence, shut off from other people, wrapped up in perfectly pressed suits.  Men who have the ability to remove themselves from the emotional “situations” of others.  That’s what my father called it when my mother called him out on his affairs, or I got into a fight at school.</p>
<p>“Is there a situation I have to deal with?” he would ask.  That question usually resulted in me getting the strap.</p>
<p>I was doing just fine in following my mother’s advice before you showed up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cotton

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided (in honour of Inceptiversary) to move all of my works from other sources into this series. Some have been edited for content or spelling but remain largely untouched. The title for the series is from Soldier's Rock by Owen Pallett--a very Eames song in my opinion.
> 
> This work can be found on my tumblr (accedoabeo.tumblr.com) and was also submitted to the Inception fan work book for the fifth anniversary.

I am warming my heart with the smokey single malt you favour, that I splurged on yesterday. I am leaning against my window frame waiting; you will be here any minute and it has been made clear to me that should you knock and I not answer, you may not come again. My breath steams up the glass. It must have dropped a little outside since I was out earlier, the New York sky relatively clear. I abandon my post to the overstuffed comfort of the couch. This apartment, like the whisky, was impulsive and expensive. We both pretend it was an investment, that I uprooted to New York for the closeness to Cobb, to work. For the culture. We both dance around the fact that I can see your carefully selected building from my balcony, that this is the closest we will ever be to each other without breaking your rules.

You’re at the door, I don’t need to check who it is. You ooze sensuality, class. Even your knock is the kind of thing that makes a fellow stop and run a hand through his hair, check his zipper. Notice all the holes in his favourite jumper. I finish my drink and step up to the door, resting my head against it but not opening it. Your knock comes again, more insistent and– I dare to hope–perhaps a bit worried. My hand is on the knob and I toy with the idea of cutting myself loose from you, letting you stand there and seeing what happens next. But I sigh and open the door. We both know I am here, waiting. That I would never dare to be anywhere else.

You breeze past me, your wool coat chilled to the touch and a scarf just under your reddened nose. It must be much colder than when I went out. There is a jolt as I recognize the scarf as one I gave you for your last birthday.

“I couldn’t find anything else." Your tone is defensive when you see where I am looking but you give me a kiss on the mouth, something you have not graced me with since the last time you had one too many.

You take my empty glass from the coffee table and refill it, making a drink for yourself as well. You do not hand it to me but rather lead me down the hall to my bedroom. (You know the way by heart now, as you must since turning on the light when you leave might wake me). I have left the clipping on the bed for you; I took it out of an encyclopedia this morning.

_Cotton ___, it reads, _is derived from the seed-hair fibre of a variety of plants of the genus Gossypium, native to most subtropical countries. The shrubby plant produces a creamy-white flower which soon turns deep pink and falls off, leaving the cotton boll containing the seeds. Seed hairs growing from the outer skin of the seeds become tightly packed within the boll, which burst open upon maturity. ___

__But you just smile that lopsided little smile you have for when you’re confused and don’t want to let on, and put it away in the bedside table. You haven’t understood that I meant it for you; the only love poem I will ever give to you, the most satisfying description I would ever be able to give someone of you. Of us._ _

__You continue to smile at me as you shuck your clothes (perhaps you had a few before you came because you are far too giddy when you kiss me on the mouth again). Your fingers work at my buttons as I take you in._ _

__When we were first undressed in front of each other, I was confused by your choice of underwear. My best mate always said you could tell a lot about a man by his skivvys, and tight-whiteys didn’t seem right on you, as you were. I imagined silk, or some other luxuriously imported material. Or, in my most erotic fantasies, nothing at all. And yet, the more I got to know you the more it made sense. Spot-less, restricted, simple and containing._ _

__I sink to my knees before you, ever the acolyte worshipping the deity. Your body is as close as I have ever come to religious reverence._ _

__"Let it out,” I murmur into the soft skin where your thigh meets the rest of you, skin bitten pink by the elastic, your fingers in my hair. “Let me in.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly inspired by John Gould’s short story of the same name.


End file.
